Moonlight Seranade
by 4. Black Queen
Summary: A Jean Grey/Emma Frost femslash. Whos does Emma truly desires?
1. Chapter 1

There had been years when this was everything she wanted.  
Emma's heels ticked softly on the floor, shadow and  
moonlight sliding across her skin in turn as she walked the  
halls of Xavier's mansion. Some years it had been revenge  
she'd craved; revenge on DaCosta's son, revenge for being  
thwarted - year after year by the sanctimonious X-men -  
fury at Xavier's teachings that left his student's so  
vulnerable to treachery from humans. In the later years,  
when everyone was older, if not wiser, Emma craved the  
mansion for a different reason entirely.

Now she had all she craved. The mansion, a position of  
leadership, the responsibility of shaping the next  
generation of mutant children - and Scott.

Her late night

wanderings had taken her to the Headmaster's office and she  
poured herself a glass of whiskey.

"And still, I rate below a corpse," she tipped her glass to  
the monolithic, stylized bird statue looming beyond the  
window, stark in the moonlight and stone cold dead. Like  
Jean.

Not that she believed that would last forever. Returning  
from the dead was Jean's talent, after all.  
Someday, somehow, Emma expected Jean would show up again.  
She was certainly aware that Scott believed that too. Emma  
swallowed down the whiskey, closing her eyes at the  
satisfying burn then poured another glass.

She wasn't going to start simpering about the price of her  
dreams now and took another swallow instead. Pushing aside  
the curtain Emma stared out at the dark shadows and moonlit  
stone. Scott had chosen it, the odd apricot alabaster and  
the abstract design both. She wondered if Jean would have  
liked it and guessed not. Jean, for all her prudish,  
ill-tempered arrogance hadn't been much for big honking  
statues in her honor. What the Phoenix believed … Emma  
really didn't give a damn.

Emma found herself outside a little while later, circling  
the statue while the night air slipped past the translucent  
barrier of her nightgown. The silk clung to her hips and  
to cold nipples, slipped apart to bare her thighs and that  
was just the way she wanted it. Emma bought her lingerie  
with an eye to who was going to be looking at it, not for  
warmth.

The glass was cold on her mouth and, when she put her hand  
to the stone statue, it was colder still. She saluted it  
then, on impulse, poured a splash of whiskey at the base.  
Remy LeBeau, superstitious Cajun that he was, would be  
proud of her. Perhaps a tip of whiskey now and then would  
keep Jean away for another day, another month, another  
moment.

"Give me a chance, damn you," she whispered to the  
soaring beak. It cut into the diamond bright moon, a  
sharp, red edged shadow. Just like the shadow Jean still  
cast over Emma's life. She had everything she longed for  
and nothing. Nothing.

Emma hopped up on the base of the statue and sat, cold  
stone biting through the pale silk of her inadequate  
clothes. The expansive, and expensively repaired lawn, was  
empty - or at least Logan was staying out of her sight.  
The mansion was silent behind her, all the kiddies dreaming  
of better days and Scott dreaming of Jean. She didn't even  
have to dip into his mind to know that. It had been true  
since before Jean had died and … Emma wasn't going  
to bitch about lying in the bed she'd made for herself.

She was a substitute and she'd known it at the first kiss.  
At least Scott was old enough now not to try and lie to her  
about it and Emma supposed she had to be satisfied with  
that. Or do without and she wasn't used to not getting  
what she wanted. Except that she'd never bargained for  
being a crutch and she leaned back against the cold stone,  
cursing Jean's name and her yenta-arrogance for 'giving'  
Scott into Emma's care like he was a crippled boy.

Which, Emma had to admit as she studied the dregs of her  
drink, he was. It was like he'd lost a limb - or something  
more significant. The ache of Jean's absence was always,  
always there in his mind. For a telepath it was  
maddening and nothing she did soothed that ache. Because  
she wasn't Jean.

And there, of course, lay temptation. She was a telepath  
of no little power and she knew what Scott missed and  
longed for as no one else did. It would be easy, almost,  
to give him what he so desperately wanted. What he clearly  
needed.

It would be easy to give him Jean.

Frighteningly easy, with everyone in the mansion holding  
their breath and waiting for Jean's fiery return. It would  
not be so hard to draw Jean's image and Jean's voice and  
Jean's walk over her own. It would not be difficult to  
find and fill all the spaces where Jean once had been.  
They were not so different after all.

Both telepaths. Emma let her mind rove over the dreams  
within the house behind her. Logan was asleep, amazingly  
enough and for once, free of nightmares. Emma tip-toed  
past his mind, wary of stirring him from his rare moment of  
peace.

Both powerful. In their battles, sometimes Jean had been  
the victor and sometimes Emma. As they'd aged, they'd  
reached an impasse and it was only situational advantages  
that kept them from stalemate. Emma liked to believe that  
they had even come to a sort of understanding in the years  
as opponents and uneasy allies.


	2. Chapter 2

Both women. Emma wound a lock of her moon-silvered hair  
around a finger. Jean had been undeniably beautiful, in  
the particular way of women who didn't care about their own  
beauty. Emma traced the shape of her own mouth with a  
fingertip; Jean's mouth had been a warmer shape - a little  
irregular dip at the left. Emma could practically feel it.  
The fuller shape, see the deeper red. She swept her  
tongue over her finger.

Jean had been slender where Emma was fuller; a lifetime of  
training as an X-man betrayed by sleek muscle if you looked  
for it. Emma ran her damp finger down the length of her  
throat, feeling a pulse stronger and deeper than her own.  
Her nipples prickled, swelling from more than cold now.

She rolled the cold glass over her breast, gasping and  
arching her back at the teasing chill. Cradling herself,  
she pressed a palm over her nipple, rubbing in small  
circles and breathing deep at the prickling warmth. Jean's  
breasts were smaller, a petal soft handful with skin like  
cream and nipples like rosebuds waiting for a touch to wake  
them to pleasure.

Heat gathered and spread down to swell between Emma's legs  
and she slipped off the cold stone only to lean against it,  
spreading her legs to the night air and the phantom touches  
that seemed so very real. A breeze that should have been  
chilling but instead seemed hot, like breath, stole up her  
thigh. Emma tugged her robe open, ivory gold skin framed  
by ice white silk, the pollen gold triangle of pubic hair  
silvered by moonlight and pale pale breasts flushed and  
swollen with desire.

Hunger rippling through her, Emma closed her eyes and  
dipped two fingers into her mouth. She bit at them,  
imagining stronger hands, a longer body against her own, a  
hot damp mouth closing on her pulse. Hands shaping her  
breasts, kneading them, making he hips roll in feverish  
answer. Pulse leaping against teeth and full lips, Emma  
breathed Jean's name and inhaled the smell of her hair  
brushing her cheek. Cinnamon hair, fire hair, warm hands  
sliding over her waist, a warm tongue licking down her  
throat. Emma gathered that hair in her hands, stroked over  
satin skin and felt shifting muscles under her hands. She  
was hot now, in the cold moonlight, beneath the shadow of a  
dead bird. Hot and aching and wet.

Nipples between her fingers, hard, tight and swollen and  
she pinched them, gasping as pleasure flooded her senses.  
Cradled her breasts and offered them for touch and taste,  
drawing nipples out between her fingers, milking the  
pleasure that surged through her in sharp little aches.  
Her skin felt too small, sweat gleaming, tracing the echo  
of taste and touches. Emma scraped her fingernails down  
the long curve of hip and waist, a hot cry flooded the air.  
It was all heat now, heat and sweaty skin and the salty  
smell of desire. Open mouthed moans carried in the night,  
Emma's fingers chased shivers and gasps and tormenting maps  
as they slid down to circle the small dip of a navel. The  
skin under hands was so hot, so eager. She could  
taste salt now, and shape the feel of swollen nipples in  
her mouth. She could feel the patter of nips and licks and  
kisses, each one a new spark of pleasure. Pleasure seeped  
wet and languid down her thigh and Emma reached down to  
slip her fingers across the silky fluid.

The taste of a woman's salt pleasure made Emma groan low  
and long. Her free hand dropped to press against the fine,  
wet hair between her legs. As she massaged the tender  
fullness of her labia, Emma felt the gathering ache within  
strengthen. Climax built in the hard ache of her nipples,  
the shift and sway of her breasts, in the flush of her skin  
and behind her closed eyes where red hair and fiery touches  
lingered in her mind's eye.

Emma parted wet flesh, fingers sliding slick in warm  
scented pubic hair, teasing the thinner inner lips as her  
hips jumped in desperate hunger for more touch. The hot,  
swollen nub of her neglected clit throbbed sharply in  
demand and her hips angled forward in demand for more. One  
hand pressed to her belly, feeling the shiver of muscles  
there, she glided a finger between the folds of her body,  
the anticipation of penetration making her pant.  
Forefinger angling within, as she pressed deep Emma also  
pushed her thumb against her clit and her body jumped in a  
spasm of fierce pleasure.

Fluid wet her palm as she rocked her hips, riding the  
finger within, thrusting against the tease of her own  
thumb. She shifted, pressing two fingers inside, sighing  
at the feel of pressure, the movement. She was so hot in  
there, so wet, the bud of her clit hard and swollen and  
throbbing in joy against her thumb. Emma circled herself,  
nerves thrumming with pleasure, hand running up and down  
her body, circling her breasts, stroking her nipples,  
dropping down to push against her own hand and to feel more  
pressure. Her hip rode the night, legs sprawled wide,  
body arched across the stone and kissed by the moon.

Eyes squeezed shut, Emma could feel the rippling heat on  
her skin, anticipation hurried her hands, thumb moving now  
in strong, urgent circles, fingers rocking in and out and  
in and out -

She was torn between holding off and rushing forward when  
her hips snapped forward, climax blooming in a red rush  
through her as her slick vagina clamped rhythmically  
against her hand. The pulsing release throbbed wildly in  
her ears, simmered over her skin and Emma wailed aloud,  
crushing her palm against her labia and clutching the  
moment, drawing it a series of long, ecstatic shudders.

Thighs shaking hard, Emma slumped against the stone, one  
hand braced against it with the other still buried between  
her legs. With a long sigh, hair tumbled across her  
flushed face, she drew free; feeling the immediate, lonely  
ache between her legs.

The wind was chilling now, when it had seemed so hot a  
moment ago as Emma blinked dazedly into the night. There  
was nothing out there, of course, and if her body hummed  
and stung with the memory of presence, well that was  
only a fantasy.

She pulled her inadequate silk robe tight around herself,  
sticky hand leaving damp prints on the fabric. Emma knew  
that Jean would return someday but she doubted it would be  
to fulfil one of her private sexual fantasies. It was  
unlikely that it would be the heat of Jean's passion she  
would face when she returned.

Emma shook her hair back and walked, a tad unsteadily back  
indoors. It was time for a shower and possibly time to  
wake Scott from his dream fantasy and provide him a waking  
one instead. Behind her, the whiskey spilled in idle  
sacrifice gleamed gold and crimson in the white light of  
the moon.


End file.
